The Reckoning (6 page)

All insults had stopped following the encounter with the riders from the Circle K. Even Duane wondered
who the wild man was who'd punched strangers in the mouth and yanked them out of saddles. I should've called McGrath over, instead of challenging that cowboy. McGrath is getting paid to be ramrod, not me.

He and Ross were scheduled to battle that evening, but Ross appeared uninterested in pursuing the conflict. They'd all become chary of Duane, treated him with deference; he wasn't the tenderfoot anymore. He'd learned the hard way that in the secular world, naked brutality was considered the pinnacle of human achievement.

Duane didn't know what to think of himself. Violence was clearly a sin, yet Christ physically threw the moneylenders out of the temple precincts. It could be this, or it could be that. Duane wished he could revive the rock-solid certainties of monastery life, but they'd melted like ice in the flames of hell. What could be worse than the hatred, jealousy, and greed of the secular world?

The ramrod's voice came to him from across the campsite. “Braddock—can I talk to you a moment?”

“Yes, sir.” Duane was on his feet in an instant, carrying his tin plate, heading toward the great man. The other cowboys watched his progress, as firelight cast writhing shadows on the side of the chuck wagon. Duane sat opposite the ramrod and said, “What's up?”

The ramrod scrutinized Duane carefully. “Who are you, kid?”

“What're you driving at?”

“You nearly got a lot of men killed today. Do you know that?”

“That Circle K cowboy accused me of being a rustler. Was I supposed to lie down and take it?”

“Yes.”

The ramrod sliced off a chunk of steak and placed it into his mouth, ruminating like a cow. Duane wondered if he should apologize, but for what? “Nobody calls me a rustler and gets away with it.”

“This range don't need another hothead. Old Man Krenshaw's all right, but that son of his is a little loco. Then you ride by and knock him out of the saddle. Jay Krenshaw ain't the type what fergits, and he can hire all the guns he wants. You'd better watch yer back, if you want to see nineteen.”

It was midnight when Amos Raybart returned to the Circle K Ranch. All the lights were out except for one in the corner of the main house, while wind whistled the shingles of the barn. Raybart tied his horse to the rail, entered the main house, and the living room was silent, with a few embers glowing dully beneath fireplace ashes. He made his way down the corridor and knocked lightly on a door.

“Come in,” said the voice on the other side.

Raybart entered a small, smelly room, where Jay Krenshaw lay fully clothed on a bed. The boss's son rolled over, his eyes half open, and looked at Raybart. “What'd you find out?”

Raybart sat on the wooden chair in the corner.
An empty bottle stood on the dresser, and the odor of stale whiskey hung mournfully in the air. “I talked to Mr. Gibson, like you said. He told me that Braddock came from Titusville, and his woman is the new schoolmarm.”

Jay Krenshaw sat up in bed. “He's got a
woman?
” The boss's son reached for the whiskey bottle, saw that it was empty, and threw it across the room, where it crashed into the wall, sending shards of glass flying in all directions. Raybart had to raise his arm to protect his eyes.

Jay had slept fitfully since going to bed, because the embarrassment still rankled. And if that wasn't enough, he had to sleep alone while Braddock had his own woman. “What'd she look like?”

“Din't see her.”

Jay couldn't forget the horrible incident, which smoldered in his mind like burning rags. I'll never be able to head up this ranch, if I get the reputation that any filthy cowboy can throw me out've my saddle.

“Go to Titusville,” Jay said. “Find out all you can about Braddock.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out money. “Don't come back until you know who he is, and what he's done. I think he's an owlhoot, and maybe we can get the law to string him up. Otherwise we'll have to do it. Are you still here?”

Lieutenant Dawes walked down the deserted street, on his way back to the encampment. His
hands were clasped behind his back, head bowed to the ground in deep thought. Miss Fontaine is in difficult straits, he ruminated. The collar of her dress was frayed, and she had a worried expression in her eyes.

Lieutenant Dawes could converse endlessly on topics intellectual or spiritual, but seldom felt warmth for other people. He was basically a lonely soldier boy, but now, after dinner with Vanessa Fontaine, he saw new hope for the happiness that he'd long ago despaired of ever finding. Somehow, I must make sure she doesn't marry, he thought darkly.

Lieutenant Dawes wanted to be an honorable man, and a credit to the officer corps, but needed a wife desperately. He knew that many women married the wrong men out of financial desperation, and wondered if that was driving her into the arms of her cowboy husband-to-be. She probably thinks I'm just another tin soldier, and a damn Yankee to boot.

He pulled aside the tent flap, and Corporal Hazelwood sat at the desk, writing a letter home. Lieutenant Dawes removed his cavalry gloves, as Corporal Hazelwood made his report. Then the corporal departed, leaving Lieutenant Dawes alone in his tent. He looked at the logbook, sat heavily on the canvas cot, and stared into the middle distance. I can't put in twenty years on the frontier without a wife, but if I had Vanessa Fontaine waiting for me at the end of every day, it wouldn't be so bad. How can I broach the subject without making a fool of myself?

Less than three hundred yards away, Vanessa Fontaine lay in bed with her own romantic notions. She was at the crossroads of life, and could go up or down, according to decisions of the next few days. She'd noted the lovesick glaze in Lieutenant Dawes's eyes, and he'd appeared uncomfortable in his uniform. Moreover, she knew that women were scarce in Texas, and men generally considered her attractive. I'm still a desirable commodity, but how much longer can it last?

I'll be an old lady soon, and Duane will start looking for someone his own age. He'll weep and moan, but he'll abandon me nonetheless. On the other hand, a West Point officer closer to my age would be less likely to create a scandal that could jeopardize his career.

Now I'm finally thinking with my mind, instead of my heart. Duane has certain delightful traits, she pondered, but he's really just a plaything, and not a man with whom a woman can build a life. Lieutenant Dawes, on the other hand, is a West Point officer with a better chance for promotion than those who came up through the ranks. I can't throw myself at him, and he can't ask me to marry him, since I'm already engaged. Maybe I should get unengaged, but if I do it so soon, people will think that I'm silly, callous, or a schemer, which in fact I am. And then, if it all works out, how could I tell Duane? With his temper, he's liable to shoot somebody.

Duane lay on the dirt near the cold embers of the campfire. Men snored all around him, but he wasn't accustomed to sleeping on the ground, and didn't know where to put his hip. He tried to find a comfortable position, but there was none on the cold, hard ground.

His muscles ached, a demon drilled a hole through his brain, and his stomach struggled to digest the massive poundage of beef that he'd devoured that evening. Unable to fall asleep, he recalled the run-in with the Circle K. He was in trouble again, because other people wouldn't leave him alone.

What is it about me that bothers them? he wondered. Why didn't that Circle K cowboy pick on somebody else? And he knew that the incident wasn't over. Once again, he'd have to watch his back.

You can always return to the monastery, he said to himself. Just get down on your knees, apologize to the abbot, and he'll forgive you. But how can you live without women?

He'd noticed pretty Mexican girls at Mass in the monastery church, and had experienced impure thoughts. The craving became so intense, he decided to leave, but didn't have courage to tell the abbot. So he got into a fight, and the abbot had thrown him out, resolving his dilemma. Then, a few weeks later, he'd run into Vanessa Fontaine. He recalled the advice of Saint Paul the Apostle.
It is better to marry than burn.

Duane was anxious for Saturday night to arrive. He also considered Vanessa his best friend and advisor. She'd always demonstrated good sense, except when she'd run off with him. I'll bet she's as lonely and unhappy as I am right now, and misses me as much as I miss her.

L
IEUTENANT DAWES appeared at the general store at the appointed hour next morning. A buffalo hunter sat at the round table, drinking whiskey, while Gibson filled an order for beans, molasses, and flour. “They're awaitin' fer you,” he said.

Lieutenant Dawes headed for the corridor behind the counter, spine straight, stomach in, chest out. His stomach rumbled with anxiety, because the detachment commander didn't feel comfortable with little children who weren't subject to his orders. And he had to make the best possible impression on Miss Fontaine.

He found the parlor, where children sat on chairs, the sofa, and the floor. The schoolmarm
faced them behind the rickety writing table that served as her desk. “Our guest has arrived,” she declared warmly. “Class, I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Clayton Dawes.”

The children applauded politely, as she'd taught them. Lieutenant Dawes tried to smile, but looked as if he'd just been outflanked by six thousand Comanches. “I've been asked to tell you about army life,” he began, “but I don't exactly know where to begin, because the army is quite a complex subject. So I thought that I'd just answer any questions that you might have. Who wants to be first?”

Nobody moved for several seconds, as children eyed him suspiciously. Then a hand warily raised into the air. “How come you wear a uniform? Why can't you dress like an ordinary person?”

“Uniforms originated because soldiers couldn't recognize friend from foe in the confusion of battle. My particular uniform was designed by people in Washington D.C., who've never seen Texas in their lives. Any other questions?”

“How much do soldiers get paid?” a different boy asked.

“Not much, but most men don't join for the money. They become soldiers because they want to serve their country.”

A little girl with a pink bow in her blond hair offered, “My father told me that men become soldiers ‘cause they're no good fer nawthin' else.”

“Tell your father,” the lieutenant replied, “that Ulysses S. Grant used to be a soldier, and now he's
President of the United States. Robert E. Lee was a soldier, and now he's built one of the finest universities in the South. Soldiering requires many skills, such as tactics, engineering, and supply, but most of all, I'd say that a soldier has to have common sense.”

“Ever kill an injun?” asked a skinny little boy with a big nose, a fiendish grin on his face.

“A few.”

“What'd it feel like?”

Lieutenant Dawes was seldom at a loss for words, but how could he explain terror, triumph, blood, and guts? “I guess I was glad to kill him before he killed me. Next question?”

It was silent, and Lieutenant Dawes realized that he'd been too abrupt. His troopers had to tolerate his imperious manner, but not the children of Shelby. He cast his eyes over them and remembered when he was a child, with a bright mischievous mind, and the innocence of a lamb.

The silence was rescued by the voice of the schoolmarm, who interrupted with the unerring instinct of a sophisticated social animal. “Could you tell us about West Point, Lieutenant?”

“I spent the best years of my life there, and I'll always carry it with me wherever I go. Most people don't know that the Point is one of the best engineering schools in the world, and any American can go there, free of charge. All it takes is the desire to serve your country, and hard work.”

Vanessa listened to him describe a day in the life of a cadet, and she had to admit that he cut the splendid figure of a man. The more she
thought of it, the more she questioned running off with a poor ex-monk so much younger than she. Duane had many wonderful qualities, but no money, no prospects, and no specialized skills, except for his talent with guns, which probably would get him killed before long.

After the lecture, Vanessa escorted Lieutenant Dawes to the door. “Thank you for agreeing to speak to us, Lieutenant. It was a most enlightening lecture.”

Their bodies were close, in the long corridor that led to the general store. She felt his rugged physicality, while the lone soldier was enchanted her narrow waist. Each knew that they'd never speak again, but he didn't dare make an untoward suggestion to a woman about to be married, and she couldn't simply flirt like a dance hall girl.

They stepped onto the main street of Shelby. Straight ahead was a wagon, the big draft horses looking at them curiously. Schoolmarm and officer fumbled for words, their eyes met, and a silent communication passed between them. He knew that he had to speak, or forever hold his peace. What would my father say under the circumstances? he wondered. He'd say whatever was on his mind, and let the devil take the hindmost. Lieutenant Dawes cleared his throat, and his voice sounded strange and reedy to his ears. “I understand that you'll be getting married in a few days, Miss Fontaine.”

“It's the truth,” she replied, a frown coming over her face.

There was silence. Somehow the hurdle must be
surmounted, but neither knew how. Then Lieutenant Dawes muttered, “You don't sound very happy about it.”

“To be honest, sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing.”

He took a deep breath to steady himself. “If you're not sure, perhaps you shouldn't go through with it.”

“It's not good for a woman to be alone, if you know what I mean.”

He tried to grin. “As long as there are men like me, women like you will never be alone.”

“It's been my observation that men grow tired of women rather quickly.”

“Depends on the woman, I'd say. You'll probably remain beautiful forever, because you have perfect bone structure. But true beauty comes from within, and is ageless. As I said before, I'm surprised to find a woman like you in Shelby. Do you like it here?”

“Not very much, I'm afraid, and I certainly don't look forward to spending the rest of my life here.”

“Why can't you leave?”

“Sometimes people get locked into difficult situations from which they can't readily extricate themselves.”

“Are you speaking of yourself, Miss Fontaine?”

“Perhaps.”

They gazed deeply into each other's eyes, then glanced away nervously. This is it, he thought. “Sometimes, people think they're trapped, but they're really not. If you don't want to marry Mister
Braddock, you can . . . well . . . this may sound rather strange . . . but you can marry me.”

She didn't know whether to blush, laugh, or cry. “You shouldn't joke with a poor girl's heart, Lieutenant.”

“I need a wife, and it appears that you need someone to take care of you. Perhaps we can arrange something, but it wouldn't work if you found me unattractive.”

“Oh no—you're quite attractive,” she admitted. “The army uniform was made for a man like you. It's just that you've taken me by surprise.”

“Surely you've noticed that I've been looking at you with lust in my heart.”

She touched her hair. “I thought you saw me as a dried-up old schoolmarm.”

“You're much more than that.”

Both felt relieved, because the barrier had been passed. “This is very unexpected,” she said. “I don't receive a proposal every day. You
have
made a proposal, haven't you?”

“Absolutely.”

“I'm scheduled to marry another man this Sunday, but your offer is most compelling. I'd like to think it over, if you don't mind. In war and love, one mustn't make hasty decisions.”

“We could help each other,” he explained. “I'm going on a scout in the morning, and perhaps you'll have an answer when I return?” He bowed slightly, a sunbeam rolling across his left shoulder bpard. “I place myself at your disposal, Miss Fontaine.”

Duane twirled his lasso over his head, as Thunderbolt leapt over a cholla cactus. They were chasing a spirited calf who wasn't in the mood for a red-hot brand. The calf dodged from side to side, squealing for his mother, but Thunderbolt stayed after him, tongue hanging out, enjoying the chase.

Duane threw the rope, and it flew through the air. The calf saw it coming, bleated in misery, but couldn't get out of the way. The ring of doom dropped over his neck, and Duane tied his end around the pommel. “Gotcha!”

He dragged the struggling calf toward the fire, and couldn't remember when he'd ever felt so vigorous. I always knew that this was the job for me! The sky was bright blue, with no clouds in sight. He felt warm, the top three buttons of his shirt unfastened, his red bandanna loose around his throat. A substantial quantity of thick black cowboy coffee made him wide awake and keyed for action.

It's not a bad life, he acknowledged. And on Saturday night, I'll sleep with my beautiful future bride. What am I always complaining about? It looks like everything's finally going my way.

Lieutenant Dawes sat at his desk, studying his map. His orders were to sweep south, to insure that no Comanches were marauding in the area. He traced his finger along the proposed route and hoped to reach a certain water hole by nightfall.

The image of Vanessa floated through his mind, interrupting his concentration. After years of living
in the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, the mere thought of sleeping with Vanessa Fontaine excited him beyond his wildest hallucinations. My misery will be over, if she says yes.

Sergeant Mahoney approached, throwing a salute. “Ready to move out, sir.”

Lieutenant Dawes drew himself to his full height, and surveyed the scene before him. The detachment was formed in two ranks, with the wagon to the right, and the guidon fluttering in the breeze. He marched to his horse, whose reins were held by a private with a chin cut during his morning's shave. Lieutenant Dawes raised himself into the saddle, and hollered, “Detachment—left face!”

The men reined their horses in that direction as Lieutenant Dawes rode to their head. He was surprised to note a gathering of children at the edge of town, clumped around their tall, blond school-marm. He felt like a knight of the round table going off to war, cheered by his lady love.

He took his position at the head of the column as his horse pranced nervously, raring to go. Lieutenant Dawes raised his right hand in the air, and shouted, “Detachment—forward—hoooooo!”

He lowered his hand and put his spurs to the horse. The animal stepped out proudly, moving his head up and down, as Lieutenant Dawes sat firmly in his saddle, cavalry hat slanted low over his eyes.

Ahead, the children and their schoolmarm congregated alongside the path of the oncoming soldiers. The little girls clapped their hands gleefully, while boys stared in awe at soldiers riding off to fight the
dreaded Comanche. Lieutenant Dawes drew closer, and admired the woman he hoped to marry. He raised his right hand, fingers extended stiffly, and tossed her a salute.

A light rain fell that night. The cowboys from the Bar T dined on the usual steak dinner, but the biscuits were soggy, and rivulets of rainwater flowed among the beans. McSweeny swore at the fire sputtering beneath the makeshift tarpaulin shelter, as if that would make the coffee boil faster.

Duane sat in silence among the other cowboys. They all wore their ponchos, their feet wet, and a chill was on the range. Duane swallowed his last chunk of nearly raw steak, and washed it down with water from his canteen. He dipped his plate into the bucket of tepid water, cleaned it, and stacked it on the rainsoaked chuck wagon counter. Then he headed for his bedroll. He wanted to go to bed early, because McGrath had assigned him the second watch.

Rain poured on him as he unrolled his blankets and tarpaulin. Then he pulled off his boots, removed his hat, and squirmed out from beneath his drenched poncho. In an instant he was inside his bedroll, his head withdrawing like a turtle's.

Rain pelted him steadily, but the tarpaulin kept him dry. The storm howled around him, lashing the canvas atop the chuck wagon. A bolt of thunder rippled over the ground, and the earth heaved.

The dramatic weather caused him to think of his wife-to-be in Shelby. I can't wait to see her on
Saturday, he thought, hugging the blankets closer. What a great time we'll have.

Fifteen miles away, a lone rider made his way across the rainswept plain. He slouched in his saddle, and the hood of his poncho make him look like a strange mad monk on an incomprehensible quest.

But he was no monk, and his mission wasn't religious. Amos Raybart's eyes were closed, and he slept fitfully, transported through the night on the back of his soaking horse. The animal plodded onward, because Comanches offered more misery than cowboys, and if a horse became tired, the Comanche ate his liver.

Raybart traveled at night, and slept during the day. The cowboy had been wanted once, and knew all the tricks. He drowsed in the saddle, and rain didn't bother him. He didn't have to punch cows, and was making extra money. What more could a man want?

Somewhere in the pouring rain—Titusville. Raybart hoped to arrive on Saturday, unless he was delayed by Comanches. He saw himself lying on the plain, stripped naked, his bones whitening in the sun, while a Comanche wore his hat.